


On the Verge

by ferretsoda



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ameridan Psycho, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, Pining, see what i did there?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferretsoda/pseuds/ferretsoda
Summary: Varric Tethras is a business associate, but he's also the only real thing in my life. He knows he's handsome but I don't think he realizes how profoundly it affects me.
Relationships: Inquisitor/Varric Tethras, Male Inquisitor/Varric Tethras
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	On the Verge

It was just after four when I finally got off. When I opened my eyes, I saw the little gold hands on my watch. I hoped I hadn't been too loud. I usually just exhale or bite something. I was glad I didn't hang my jacket and tie up, after all, now that the stall door had an impromptu paint job.  
One flushed silk handkerchief later and I was out the door, back into the waiting lounge. The receptionist smiled like she knew; I smiled back a "fuck off". I took my seat on the leather sofa again and waited. My nerves were still thrumming, but the anxiety was gone. It felt nice.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. This business meeting. I already knew how it would play out; we'd exchange empty pleasantries, let them lead the conversation, I'd tell them what I want and accept only 'yes'. That's the only way to deal with these people. They like to spin you around and around and throw red tape at you until you're begging for mercy. But I went to Harvard. I know how to spout meaningless drivel and get nowhere. I did it for four years.

The Inquisition was like being naked on a snowy night. It was freeing, maybe even arousing. Power turns me on, but I think deep down everyone thinks like that. To demonstrate this, I stretch out in my seat, arms curled over the back of the sofa and legs out at all angles. A man sitting across from me doesn't know what to make of me. So I lie back down in my seat and slouch, nearly sliding out of it. My pants ride up, outlining my thighs and crotch nicely. I look up at him and he is suddenly more interested with his briefcase's latches. I take the time to look at him: balding, wispy mustache, skin pale and dull from years of being ignorant. That's what he is: gray. The embodiment of gray nothingness. I think about what a waste he is. A body full of valuable organs that could save better people than him. His corneas alone would fetch a couple thousand each. I feel my fingernails dig into the pleather on the back of the sofa. The idea of tearing this man apart like soggy paper towels makes my pulse quicken. I'm slightly aware I'm scraping the sofa and the noise can probably be heard. The man must hear it because he's pulling out papers from the briefcase and pretending I'm not here. My toes curl in my Santonis. I want to snap on him like a high-tension wire.

By the end of the week I've acquired new pools of slush funds for the Inquisition to play with. Nobody's sure what we're going to do with it. Nobody can really predict what the Inquisition does. It's a putrid beast, belching out black smoke from razed towns and military compounds. It absorbs its victims into its bloodstream. And I am the smiling man in charge of it all.  
The ink in my Montblanc fountain pen's run out in the middle of signing checks. As I'm filling it up again, there is a knock at the door.

"Enter."

"Hey, big guy."

Varric's already sitting down in the Executive 500 desk chair. I fill up the pen while shifting my attention to him. Without breaking eye contact, I thread the ink cartridge back into the barrel of the pen without spilling a drop. He looks impressed, I think.

Varric Tethras is a business associate, but he's also the only real thing in my life.

He's the only one I allow to get away with violating dress code. He knows he's handsome but I don't think he realizes how profoundly it affects me. Sometimes I think of what it would be like to kiss him hard on the mouth. As far as he knows, we're just two heterosexual men sitting in an office, talking about our next assignment. Yet, in my mind I see that Liberty London shirt crumpled in my hand, the other grabbing his jaw rough enough to leave marks. I'd _want_ there to be marks. I'd _want_ the world to know he was mine. He'd have a hickey for every day of the week. But right now that neck, thick and golden and pulsing with life, is bare. The top two buttons are undone and he's fiddling with the third as he talks.

"So how long is _this_ trip going to be? I have to tell my publisher before he sends out a search party," he laughs.

"A couple of weeks, probably," I say. "I'll have a rundown of everything at today's meeting." I had the stack of folders labeled with everyone's names written in crisp ink next to me. Inside each folder were 15 pages of documentation on our assignment, covering the region's history, topography, climate, flora, and fauna. I also wrote guides on weapon modification for protection against extreme weather. For Varric's crossbow I'd suggested Microlon Precision Oiler for lubrication and rust protection. I'd also recommended Anthelios SPF 60.

He smiles and nods my way. "Thanks, I appreciate that."

I smile back, hesitantly. We sit for a moment or two, just looking at each other, but then Varric's leaning down and pulling something out of a brushed leather folio, muttering something about a surprise. I don't hear him; I'm distracted by the fact that I can see straight down his shirt. A trail of chest hair disappears down into the shadows and I can feel my salivary glands tingle in anticipation.

"I thought you might want to see _these_," he says, but hitches as he straightens up. He hands a folder to me but is busy kneading his lower back with his free hand. I grasp the smooth creamy paper, unfold it, and peruse its contents, pretending not to have noticed. They're reports and commendations from the local towns and villages we did some peacekeeping in a few weeks back. I couldn't give a fuck about them at the moment.

"Hm," I muse out loud. My palms are starting to sweat. "Glad they didn't mind having us as guests." I toss the folder onto my desk and stand up without warning. This catches Varric by surprise, who's still rubbing his back with his knuckles. He gets out of his seat and I lead him to the door, making up some lie about having a call coming in at 11:30. As I open the door I rest a palm firmly against his lower back—warm and full— and I'm rewarded with a yelp from him.

"Let's do lunch Thursday," I say, trying to conceal any emotion that noise just caused. He's too busy covering his mouth, flushed with embarrassment, but he manages to nod weakly.

I shut the blackened mahogany door, and immediately kneel and press an ear to it, listening carefully as the footsteps fade away. I then run to my desk, loosening my tie as I pick up the phone and tell my secretary I don't want to be disturbed for the next few hours. I nearly drop the receiver and have to slam it into place several times—my hands are disgustingly sweaty now. The trembling spreads up through my arms, down my spine, through my legs. My thighs are clenching and unclenching reflexively. The emotion comes surging out, the unabashed feeling of arousal. It brings me to my hands and knees as I crumple to the white-carpeted floor. I feel like blacking out...

When I come to, I realized I've crawled under my desk. I've got my aching erection in hand, face flushed, everything throbbing and pulsing. I'm sobbing and moaning guttural sounds at the same time. They sound a little like "Varric, oh god, wanna fuck you." I feel my legs give out and they slowly slide down, until my belly's brushing against the soft fibers. I dig in my pocket for a handkerchief—kept for occasions such as this—then place it down beneath my dick like a picnic blanket. I'm humping the ground, moaning into one arm while the other's grabbing my necktie and gently tugging at it. I like the feel of the carpet rubbing against my bare skin, like it's some shapeless form prepared to engulf me, feel me struggle against itself. My arm moves so I can brush my cheek against it, groaning. I can feel Varric's arms snaring me by the waist, pulling me into the floor. Spit's bubbling out of the side of my mouth now. My hips speed up as the familiar haze descends. I'm jabbering incoherently, eyes screwed tightly shut. Hands all over me. I'm delirious. I black out again.

When I wake up again, I'm (mercifully) slumped in a corner underneath my desk. My tie's wrapped around the knuckles of one hand. My legs are slung out in front of me and for a minute I imagine someone walking in and seeing them and thinking I'd been murdered. I notice my shirt's undone and I'm suddenly glad for it: cum all over my stomach and chest. I reach into one of the desk drawers and blindly fish around for the box of tissue. I wipe myself down, toss the tissue, stare into the nothingness for a few moments, and then blearily crawl back out into the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this knocking around in my head for a bit. Didn't mean for the Inquisitor to be QUITE such a knockoff Patrick Bateman, but it's an archetype I've never seen in Dragon Age. I like to think Varric keeps him sane and grounded and emotional.


End file.
